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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22905373">Anarquía</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/dul_cin_ea/pseuds/claireweasley'>claireweasley (dul_cin_ea)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>21 Jump Street (TV), Once Upon a Time in Mexico</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:42:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,615</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22905373</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/dul_cin_ea/pseuds/claireweasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Upon A Time In Mexico/21 Jump Street Crossover</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Anarquía</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was originally posted on livejournal on 22 June 2005, and has been exported from there, so apologies for the (undoubtedly numerous) extremely old errors.</p><p>Credit to [ LJ User: angstslashhope ] for the creative input.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something is amiss.</p><p>He sips his tequila and lime and slides his hand slowly down his leg, fabric ticking the bottom of his palm until it presses against lukewarm steel. His ﬁnger strokes the nub of the trigger, and his shoulders relax slightly.</p><p><i>Someone</i> is amiss rather, much too close for comfort. Sands thinks that maybe he ought to err on the side of caution and take the whole place down. He’s never really cared for the fucking rat-trap anyway, too native. Mariachi music and ponchos, and short squinty men with caricature mustaches.</p><p>He could just about kill for a few Neil Diamond tracks.</p><p>Upon some consideration, Sands decides an unprovoked shootout could be construed as somewhat hostile. And fuck it, he’s got the big mother of all matters-concerning-him this week, so it’s probably best not to risk it and draw attention to himself. Discretion is the key. His scars from the last mess seem to burn a little in unnecessary reminder.</p><p>He stills, and waits. Feels, as he calls it, because goddamn it, even if it sounds like some beatnik-tofu-loving-hippie bullshit, feeling is what it is. The thing –the person is closer. The air is tighter and tests the left side of his face. Moisture on the glass in his other hand makes his neck twitch.</p><p>There.</p><p>A shift beside him, he’s breathing in cheap perfume and –and something else, it is not a sense in particular, not one he can put down to any one thing, but it’s making his tequila stick in his throat and press against his Adam’s apple. Maybe he‘s gone mad all over again, but it’s familiar.</p><p>‘I’ll give you ﬁve seconds to fuck oﬀ, before I put a bullet in your skull.’ He smiles when he says it, for manners sake.</p><p>‘Damn boy, you kiss your mother with that mouth?’</p><p>Glass crashes, and shatters as he stands, and icy liquid seeps in his shoe dampens the tops of his feet. It's unfortunate because they‘re new, but he doesn’t care right now, because hey, he’s changed his mind and he is going to kill this shit-head and deal with the consequences, and his ruined fucking shoes later. Spinning on his heel, pointing in the direction of the voice, he pulls the trigger and the ensuing click-bang-throwback sends a rippling sensation through his arms. He’s never stopped liking it.</p><p>Quiet. He turns his head towards the cowed shuﬄe behind the bar. ‘Did I get her?’</p><p>A sharp crack across his knuckles sends his gun ﬂying out of his hands, and answers his question. </p><p>‘No,’ she says, coldly. ‘You didn’t.’</p><p>He reaches for the other gun in his holster, but the girl, to her credit, is ready for it. Resistance, and then something hard, quick, hot, hits him in the stomach, making the air burst from his lungs like water from wet towel. Cool steel encases his wrists as he’s thrown face ﬁrst into the wooden bar. Something wet and somewhat congealed sticks to his face and he tries not to think about it what it might be.</p><p>‘You didn’t get me that time either, asshole.’ She hisses the words in his ear, leaning over him to secure the handcuﬀs.</p><p>He pants, as she pulls him upward, trying to regain some of the lost air. </p><p>‘Yeah well, you know what they say. Third time lucky’</p><p>Likely to be his last chance, and knowing it, he throws his body backwards as hard as he can, his skull connecting with hers. It sends sharp ﬂickering pain all the way through his useless eye sockets, but, it works, she falls taking him with her, and the thud is more from her body than his but it‘s jarring nonetheless. He’s wired though, and ready, rolling oﬀ her in an instant and struggling to his feet. The toll of the handcuﬀs pinning his arms makes balance harder than he’s used to and he’s hitting chairs and people as he runs awkwardly though the bar, bruises already beginning to form. He’s outside and the sun is thick, callous on his face. He’s mere steps away from freedom, when he hears it.</p><p>The slide-click of a safety being turned oﬀ stills him almost immediately. </p><p>‘Move, and I’ll shoot you in the head.’</p><p>The man’s voice, he knows it too. Jesus, what– ‘What the fuck is this? A fucking reunion?’ He turns his head as he says it, making the mistake and realising it only when the muﬄed thump of something hitting him in the back of the head makes his legs collapse underneath him and then, nothing.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>Stop. Please. Stop, please please. Stop.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He can see again. He can see the caked blood, stained metal, ﬁlth. He can see him, etched into the surroundings, frayed and misshapen. Bruised. Screaming.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He squeezes his swollen lids shut. Stop.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>‘….. he tried to kill me, three times!’</p><p>‘Yeah, well he’s not who he was, you know that.’</p><p>Sands cringes as he wakes, the pounding at the back of his skull intensifying with the increase in consciousness. His hands are still cuﬀed, and he moves slightly, his feet are bound to whatever it is he’s sitting on. It feels like wood, which he thinks is handy for easier breaking and escaping, but less convenient in terms of whether or not your captors decide to set you on ﬁre.</p><p>‘He’s awake.’ A third voice. Less familiar. </p><p>‘How can you tell?’ The girl again.</p><p>‘He saw me open my eyes’ Sands snaps, and the room is very quiet again. He likes it when its like that. He arches his neck and yawns. ‘So, I hope you’re all aware that holding a CIA Agent captive is an <i>extremely</i> serious oﬀence, punishable by time in jail?’</p><p>There are footsteps, and then the male voice ‘Then I guess we should count ourselves lucky that you haven’t been an Agent for some time, shouldn’t we Mr Sands?’ More footsteps to his left, they’re in a small room, no echo. Sands shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, as the man keeps talking ‘In fact, that is why we‘re here, we've been receiving intelligence that you've been undergoing, and organising vigilante operations under the guise of being an Agent for the United States government, when in fact your titles were revoked some years ago.’</p><p>Irritation tickles his face, heating his skin. </p><p>‘So what is this? An intervention? Going to hold my hand and ask me to be a good boy?’</p><p>‘No,’ the man continues. ‘We’ve been ordered to take you back to the States for psychiatric evaluation, before a possible trial for the crimes you’ve committed during your time in Mexico’</p><p>‘Get. Fucked.’ He says it slowly, enunciating. He knows he’s the one actually completely fucked, but it makes him feel better. It's not just irritation heating his face anymore, the anger and panic, and desire to bite someone, is running through every limb in his body. ‘I’d rather die.’</p><p>Diﬀerent footsteps, someone touches the side of his face and he jerks away sharply.</p><p>‘Sit tight, you might.’ She says it, and he kind of thinks she means it. Then she is walking away, and there are two sets, uneven footsteps, and the door slams with a heavy metal clang. But there’s someone still there. Sands can hear his measured breathing. Too measured, perhaps. He waits for a moment and then directs his head in the direction of Heavy Breather.</p><p>‘You got asthma or something?’</p><p>A pause. Confusion. ‘No, I haven‘t Mr Sands.’</p><p>He still can’t place him. He doesn’t know the voice. The other two–</p><p>‘Now, I’d recognise Captain Fuller and Oﬃcer Hoﬀs’ excruciatingly repellent voices anywhere. But you, I don’t. You aren’t from the chapel are you?’</p><p>‘No, I‘m not. And she is Detective Hoﬀs now’ The kid sounds conﬁdent and non-committal, but he’s answering questions so Sands keeps going, leaning slightly sideways on his chair.</p><p>‘And you are?’</p><p>‘Special Agent Ganz’ he can hear the smug smile worming its way through the kid’s words ‘I’ve taken particular interest in your case for sometime Mr Hanson, and I asked Judy and Adam to come with me to help make the process of going back to the states easier, clearly it didn’t go as well as we’d hoped’</p><p>‘Clearly.’ His back teeth grate against one another. Now he knows why the kid was breathing heavily, the air in this place is so thick and dusty, he can barely breathe himself.</p><p>‘Tom, I know about your partner, I know what they di–’</p><p>‘Okay, stop there buddy boy’ He says it louder than he meant to, breathing harder. ‘My name isn’t Tom. It’s Sheldon Jeﬀrey Sands. Agent Sheldon Jeﬀrey Sands, CIA. Let me go. There has been a mistake, you don’t understand, I haven’t done anything wrong, I‘m keeping the fucking balance here.’</p><p>‘Like trying to have the president killed.’</p><p>Sands snorts derisively. The poor deluded fuckwit. ‘People die all the time, all the time. A quick death is the best favour you could for a person, you could be starved and beaten and tortured to death, or shot in the head, which would you prefer? It’s all about how you look at the bigger picture.’</p><p>There is a long pause, and then ﬁnally the boy speaks again, he sounds almost, somber. ‘What do you see when you look at the bigger picture, Tom?’</p><p>Sands doesn’t even correct him this time, there’s no point. His ﬁngers press into the wood burning his skin, and he smiles, an empty, somewhat crooked grin. Faded shadows linger, watching him, waiting for him to answer, memories of someone he knew once possibly, they curl up against him, ice on his skin, lips on his face–</p><p>‘Purple,’ he replies.</p>
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